about the murder over the weekend, and I mentioned that pick-up to Marilyn, when I started my shift last night.
‘She came on the radio later on, and said that Mr Terry wanted me to speak tae youse.’
Martin’s green eyes widened. ‘Mr Terry?’ He glanced at the sheet of paper on the desk.
‘D’you always do what Mr Terry asks?’
‘Too right. Not that he asks me for much, mind.’
‘Willie, we’ve done some checking on you since you got here. This says that you have eleven convictions, for theft, housebreaking and shoplifting.’ Quinn’s eyes dropped. ‘You’re not a very honest bloke, are you.’ The man said nothing.
‘So tell me, is your story exactly as it happened, or has Mr Terry embroidered it for you in any way?’
‘No!’ The voice rose. ‘What I told you, that’s just how it was, like. Honest.’
Martin smiled at this final assurance. ‘Okay. When you were in Seafield Road, do you remember seeing anything else?’
Quinn’s eyes narrowed again as if from the effort of racking his brain. ‘As I was pulling away a big fire engine came tearing round the corner, heading in the other direction. That was all.’
Martin nodded. ‘Nothing else?’
‘No.’
‘Right, I want you to wait here with the two Constables and set down what you’ve told us as a formal written statement. Once it’s been typed up and you’ve signed it, you can go.’
He stood up and strode out of the room, followed by Donaldson and McIlhenney. ‘Yours, Dave,’ he said, heading for the stairs.
‘What do you think of that?’ he asked, as the door of the Superintendent’s office closed behind them.
‘It’d be a first all right,’ drawled McIlhenney. ‘A murderer making his getaway in a minicab owned by the intended victim.’
‘Sure,’ said Donaldson, ‘but what if his car really did break down?’
‘Then he’d hardly have buggered off and left it at the scene, sir. Unless it was stolen.’
Donaldson shook his head. ‘Every vehicle in the vicinity of the fire has been accounted for.’
‘After the event,’ said Martin. He looked at McIlhenney. ‘What would your Olive do if your car broke down on a rainy night in Seafield?’
The Sergeant pondered the question. ‘Apart from giving me a severe tongue-lashing, she’d phone the RAC.’
‘And if she’d to be somewhere in a hurry?’
‘She’d tell them where it was, leave the keys in it and get a taxi.’
‘Right. So let’s follow this through. Neil, you and Sammy run a quick check with the motoring organisations, and with the garages around town who do emergency rescue services. See if any of them picked up a car from Seafield Road last Wednesday.
‘If they did, I want to know who owns it and where he lives.’
‘Unless it’s my Olive,’ said McIlhenney.
Martin smiled and shook his head. ‘No, even if it is. I’m ruling no-one out of this investigation!
‘This might not be a hot lead, exactly, but it’s the only one we have and we’ll follow it to the finish.’
59
Like most modern prisons Shotts is not built in a suburban environment. It sits on the edge of a small town, on a plateau approximately halfway between Edinburgh and Glasgow, but definitely not on any tourist route.
A few relics of its mining past are scattered around the landscape, but in the modern era the Department of Social Security is its principal paymaster.
Winter was unleashing the icy sting in its tail as Skinner drove through the double gates of the jail. Snowflakes were falling and beginning to lie on the ground as he parked and walked across towards the administration building.
Charles Hall, the Governor, was waiting for him in his office, coffee at the ready.
‘Welcome, Bob,’ he said. ‘Long time no see. Good to see you looking so fit and well after what I read about you a few months back. Fully recovered, yes?’
The policeman smiled. ‘Just about, thanks, Charles. My family had a hell of a fright at the time, but once I was through the first couple of days, the physical side of it was stabilised. It was just a matter of recuperating, then working at getting back into shape.’
He smiled. ‘How’s things with the Prison? I haven’t heard anything of you recently, so I take that to mean that all’s well.’
The bright-eyed young Governor shook his head. ‘Fingers crossed, but yes. The place seems to be under control these days, and as far as I can tell, it’s me who’s running it, not the prisoners.’
Skinner laughed. ‘That’s good to hear.’
‘The man you’ve come to see may have a lot to do with that,’ said Hall. ‘He’s an awesome figure among the inmates. He keeps himself very much to himself, reading, studying - writing now I hear - but you sense that no-one would dare to do anything that they thought Lennie might not like. And so far he’s been a model prisoner.’ He paused.
‘He was intrigued to hear that you wanted to see him. He agreed to it at once. I’ve set up an interview room in this block, so that none of the other prisoners see you together. I’ll have two of my biggest lads sit in with you.’
Skinner laughed again, even more heartily. ‘Two! Double it and it still wouldn’t be enough.
‘No, Charles. Big Lennie and I have had our go at each other. He won’t want a return match any more than I do. I’ll see him alone if you don’t mind. What I want to talk to him about has to be off the record.’
Hall stared at him, doubtfully. ‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, in that case . . . he’s waiting for you now.’ He led the way out of his office and down a short corridor, stopping outside a brown varnished door. He rapped three times with his knuckles and stepped inside, Skinner following behind.
Lennie Plenderleith was standing at the window, looking out at the snow, his back to the door. At least Skinner assumed that there was a window there. Big Lennie lived up to his nickname so well that he blocked it out. He was six feet seven and built like an elephant. The strapping guards who flanked him looked puny by comparison.
He turned at the sound of the door opening, and smiled: the slow, contented smile of a man at peace with himself. ‘Hello, Mr Skinner,’ he said. ‘What brings you here on such a bloody awful day?’
He offered out his right hand and Skinner shook it, awkwardly, since Lennie was handcuffed.
‘Take those off, please,’ the policeman asked the Governor. ‘There’s no need for them.’ Hall nodded, and one of the guards unlocked the cuffs. ‘That’s good. Now if you’ll leave us alone . . .
‘Sit down, big fella,’ said the DCC as the door closed, taking a seat himself, with his back to the window so that his companion could still see the day outside, putting himself deliberately at a disadvantage by leaving the prisoner between him and the door. He looked across at the giant and smiled. Lennie Plenderleith, multiple murderer, convicted the year before of three killings, including that of his wife. Lennie Plenderleith, millionaire, heir to the fortune of the late Tony Manson. Lennie Plenderleith, hooligan turned intellectual, Open University graduate and now doctorate candidate. Lennie Plenderleith, the only criminal Skinner had ever met for whom, against all his basic instincts, he had formed a genuine liking and respect, the only one in whom he had ever recognised a code of honour similar to his own.
‘The Governor tells me you’re writing now, Lennie.’
‘That’s right.’ The huge man’s voice was soft and gentle, in complete contrast to his physical appearance.
‘Am I going to be in it?’
‘Maybe. It’s a book about Tony’s murder, what led up to it, and what followed it. But I haven’t decided yet
